


Two Kinds of Happiness

by drugdog



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-10 02:01:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4372859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drugdog/pseuds/drugdog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill's mom spends most of her time coming up with well-intentioned schemes to get him out of funks that she dreams up for him. Her latest one is sending him to try out physical therapy for his leg. He meets Joe Toye and figures he might have been in one after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> an extension of a fic i wrote for someone back in 2014. unbeta'd

"Bill, honey," his mom says, glancing at him from across the table. "I been thinking."

Oh, God, he thinks, and the side-eyes from his brothers and sisters tell him they're thinking the same. He came over for dinner instead of hitting up a bar with Babe for once, and if his mom's been thinking, he regrets his decision. "'Bout what?" he asks.

"You oughta go to physical therapy for that leg of yours. Had a friend who had wonders worked when she went, you know. Got in an accident at work with some acid that ate up some of her leg." She's looking at him so sweet that his throat dries up- or maybe it's a knot signaling tears to come from spending money he doesn't have.

Either way, he coughs and nearly chokes on his next mouthful of chicken alfredo. "Ain't that expensive?" he asks, after he's done beating his chest with a closed fist and taking a sip of water. The last few times he's come to dinner, she's brought up solutions to the funk she's dreamt up for him.

"Push for a promotion, then," she says. "Lord knows you deserve it." And here comes the preaching. Bill loves his mom, he really does, but he only goes over to her house every so often for a reason.

"You do need to get outta your apartment more often." Bill lets her talk. He can't let her know he does get out often, mostly to find himself under guys he can't remember the names of. "A handsome young man like you needs to find someone special already." His sister beside him covers her smile with a drink. "I can help you some, but the kids're starting school again- you know how it is."

"None of that "you'll pay" shi-" he begins, and realizes his damning mistake a moment too late. His mom leans across the table- with poise, as usual- and grabs him by the ear with a click of her tongue.

"Children in the room," she says, words like steel, even though the youngest is close to middle school and cusses as bad as Bill does on his own. "None of that stuff," her look is pointed, "in my house, William Joseph Guarnere. I'll help with your first appointment, I swear, if that's what it takes for you to go."

"I'll go, ma, but you ain't payin' a cent," he says. His mom releases his ear and he rubs it with a grimace.

His siblings snicker.

/

The PT office is ugly. Bill's no big fan of interior design, but he knows sunshine yellow with green-brown trim is better for an office that specializes in diarrhea relief.

Maybe it's just that he hasn't been to the bar with Babe in a month, instead spending his next three Sundays after dinner at his mom's here.

The receptionist, Jane, he thinks, looks up from her computer and smiles as soon as Bill shoves open the heavy door with a shoulder. He’s going to fight whoever thought it’d be a good idea for a PT office to have a heavy door. "Hi, Bill," she says, and taps something into her computer. "I'll check you in."

He's managed one FaceTime with Babe. The kid's all too busy, splitting his time between two jobs and Gene. Skip was over with Malark and Penkala that time, and he told Bill "Gee, you look less like you just got it up the ass from a six five pro wrestler already!" when he stole Babe's phone. Bill doesn't know what to do with his face at the memory.

One misplaced comment about the Rock's biceps and his friends haven't shut up about it since. Six five pro wrestlers slash actors aren't even his type. "Doctor Lemaire will be out with you soon," Jane says, breaking Bill from his thoughts. Her face is plastered with a cross between typical I’m-stuck-here-until-six fake cheeriness and confusion. His ears heat up. He's been standing by the door for minutes now, lost in his head.

Bill nods and smiles. He turns to the semi-circle of chairs around a table to his right and picks up one of the magazines. The front page vomits negativity about Caitlyn Jenner and he frowns. That's her business, he thinks, and Gene saving for top surgery comes to mind. He chooses another and flicks through it without reading.

The door leading back to the PT office opens. He glances up.

A guy's standing there, leaning on a crutch. His entire right arm's covered in a tattoo sleeve, ending at his knuckles. He offers a smile to Bill, one with crinkles at the corners of his sleepy-looking, dark eyes and a quirk on the side of his mouth.

Bill blows air out, sharp, from his nose and smiles back, looking back down at the magazine. He dreads the blush he feels crawling up the back of his neck. The guy crosses the carpet to the desk and makes conversation in a voice too low for Bill to hear.

That's his type. Fuck the Rock.

He tries to put his focus on the article about the ongoing drought in California, but he's lost it all.

Especially when the guy walks past him to leave and Bill catches a hint of his cologne.

/

"So," the guy in the stool next to him, Sam, or something, says, "how'd you lose your leg?" He's running his pointer finger around the rim of his glass to the rhythm of the song playing in the background.

"Oh, this guy was fuckin' with me and I told him if he didn't shut it, I'd shove my foot up his ass. He didn't, but I wasn't kidding, and I got it stuck up there. Had to get it sawn off in the emergency room." He smiles. It's not his funniest line, he knows. Sam's laugh reflects it.

Sam checks his phone. It's over. "I gotta go. Real nice meeting you, though, Will." He gets up from the stool and pushes out of the bar, dialing a number into his phone. He didn't even finish the drink Bill bought him.

Babe slides in where Sam'd just been. "You're losin' your touch, Gonorrhea. Could've picked up that fella in a fuckin' minute flat any other time."

Bill waves his hand at him and takes a pull from his rum. "Yeah? I ain't been out with you in a month," he says. It's a bad excuse. He's still thinking about The PT Guy. Sam wasn't anywhere near- too blond and soft-jawed and not with a tattoo sleeve. "So I-"

"You need some physical therapy," Babe interjects, his face smeared with a shit-eating grin. "The kind that don't involve no exercise balls. The kind that's like with exercise balls, though, you know, layin' back with your legs open-"

"Shut the fuck up." He raises his eyebrows at Babe. "You're one to be talkin' anyway, Babe. Your boy's fuckin' ace. You ain't got laid in hell knows how long. Bet if you went at it you’d go thirty seconds."

The tips of Babe's ears go red. "Jesus fuck, Bill." He leans in like he's got a secret to tell. "So what? You and me, we're sexual, he ain't. I don't... I don't give a fuck about gettin' laid. I used to, but now I just don't fuckin' care. You do."

Bill cackles, ignoring everything that comes from Babe's mouth. "Guess you oughta join me for PT, Babe. Get your game back."

"Hey," Babe says, smile reappearing, "at least I don't have to go so I ain't look like I got bent over by a six five pro wrestler."

Bill cuffs him on the side of the head, half-hearted, and orders another round of rum.

"What can I say?" Babe bumps him with a shoulder. "You're startin' to look like a guy who's just missin' a leg."

/

He talks with The PT Guy for the first time during his fifth appointment, when he ends up at the hospital twenty minutes early and decides on a smoke, leaned up on the side of his car.  
A smooth black Cadillac pulls up in the spot by his. Bill crosses his arms when he sees who it is. He isn't self-conscious and he isn't fighting a blush.

The PT Guy slips out, pulling his crutch with him, and seems to size him up with one glance. "Early too," he says. Bill's chest tightens at his voice. It's low, good low, flowing out like gravel mixed with something sweet. "I'm Joe."

Bill runs through the possibility of trying to abandon his crush. He doesn't want to fuck around with a guy who has the same name as his dad.

"Bill," he replies, then adds, "want one?" He picks out his cigarette pack from his jacket.

"Good man." Joe takes one and puts it between his lips. "Got a light?" He cards his fingers through his hair and Bill can't help but look at his tattoo, curving, winding, up and down.  
"Uh," Bill says, processing what Joe asked and taking his eyes off his arm, "you got it." He tosses his lighter. Bill looks at Joe's lips as he lights it and curses himself.

Joe holds the lighter a second too long, squinting at it. "I got mine engraved, too. Left it at home, I think."

"What's it say?" Bill taps the ashes off from the end of his cigarette.

"When I die, bury me facing down so the whole world can kiss my ass." Bill grins when Joe grins and it feels good. "It was a joke in my old company."

"Bullshit," Bill says. It's hard to keep from smacking himself in the forehead. Joe's talking before he can try for a fix-up.

"Nah, man. I'll bring it some other time." There's a curve in the corner of Joe's mouth and Bill's got the distinct feeling that he's being laughed at. The conversation stops. Bill looks down at the paint-stained tips of his sneakers, then looks back up, past Joe.

Joe sighs smoke from the corners of his mouth and crosses his arms, elbow pressing hard on his crutch, and looks at the ground. "I seen you lookin' at this," he says, tapping his inked forearm. "Wanna look? I don't mind."

“Sure,” Bill says.

Joe sticks out his arm and Bill shuffles closer. It's dark. Greyscale in some places, rich red in others, with some hints of oranges and yellows. It has no set design, but Bill gets a ethnic vibe from the mess of swirls, patterns, and symbols. It disappears into Joe's shirtsleeve. Bill wonders how far across his body it goes.

"Damn," he mumbles. "That must've cost a shitload." It looks good, though. Matches its owner in that department.

Joe laughs and runs his hand up his upper arm. "Not a cent," he says. "Designed it myself- mixed traditional Mexican stuff with some other shit. Had my buddy who owed me big ink it for me." Bill's vibe was right. He'd been wondering where Joe came from, too. Or his ancestors. Jesus. He's too white for this shit. Joe brushes his thumb over a part that curls into itself, fond.

"What, your buddy have you hide a fuckin' body?" he asks, before he remembers Joe said something about his old company. Bill bites his tongue.

Joe looks at him with narrowed eyes, hostile and calculating, cigarette twitching in his mouth. He's close. Too close. Bill backs off and grinds his cigarette to ash on the asphalt with the heel of his shoe, keeps his eyes down.

"Gotta check in," Joe says. He flicks his cigarette into the parking lot. "I'll be seeing you, Bill."

He waits five minutes, lateness for his appointment be damned, before he follows. Joe's already in the back when Bill steps into the office. It seems uglier. Could be his fuckup.

/

Joe's smoking by his car, eyes on the ground, when Bill heads out. Bill fumbles with his keys and looks at Joe when he opens his door.

"You know, I think it's kinda useless that we're doin' this shit to build up strength and then throwing it away by smokin' a shitton of cigarettes," Bill says, leaning up over the top of the car. He's already dizzy for a fix. That's why he looks at Joe's mouth and the cigarette burning in it. For sure.

"The problem ain't our smokin' habits, it's our legs." Joe drops the cigarette on the ground anyway. "And, shit- found my lighter," he says, smiling, just as Bill's about to say goodbye.  
Bill raises his eyebrows. "Let me check if you're lyin', then." Joe lobs it at him over Bill's car.

"It's gotta little something else with it, too." Bill puts the scrap of paper over the engraving in the pocket of his jeans. He laughs at the letters punched into the silver. Etched in above them are brass knuckles.

"I don't even wanna know what you were like in the fightin' world. You crazy," he says, and throws the lighter back. "See you around, Joe."

Bill looks back as he drives away. Joe has his back to him.

/

Bill curses when he hits a red light. It's close to five, rush hour. He doesn't want to fuck with that. He hits his closed fist on his knee. The hollow thump reminds him of the paper in his pocket. The ink is smudged from rubbing on the inside of his jeans.

Joe's written his first and last on there- Toye is an interesting one, he thinks, and whiter than he assumed it'd be- and a phone number underneath.

“God fuckin' damn.” He breathes out of his nose and wrinkles his forehead. He doesn't know what Joe means by it: a friend, a fuck, or both. Those last two options seem the most appealing.  
Shit. Joe could be ace, though. Like Gene. Strictly into the type of PT that didn't involve dicks. He's getting ahead of himself.

He doesn't have long to mull it over. A car honks behind him and he hurries to put his foot on the gas.

Bill punches the numbers into his phone as soon as he steps over his threshold.

/

hey is this joe? it's bill

For once in his life, Bill had to work up the courage to do something. Of course it was texting Joe. He's been waiting a couple days, anxiety tying knots in his gut, and sympathizing with all the boys he's given his number to when he gets around to it.

His hands sweat around his phone while he waits in the darkness of his kitchen. It's too dark. He crosses the floor to open up his blinds. Bill jumps when his phone buzzes.

[5:15 PM] you got it. i was starting to think you didnt want anything to do with me

"Far from it," Bill mumbles. He walks back to where he was and leans his elbows on his countertop.

nah, i’ve just been busy

[5:16 PM] you busy today?

smooth, he types, then deletes.

no

Bill itches for a cigarette. Something to keep his hands busy between texts.

[5:17 PM] if you drink id like to take you down to johnnys for a few

Joe wants to take him out for drinks. Bill tries not to feel too hopeful. He's taken all his friends out for drinks. Shit, he takes Babe out for drinks almost every weekend.

[5:17 PM] and if you live around here anyway. wasnt thinking about you living out of town. i live on seventeenth street.

Bill runs through all of the things he could be doing- getting milk, which is optional. And catching up on sleep, which he needs.

i do drink. i can meet you there at seven

[5:18 PM] i got eight or something later if thats alright. i got a shift before

yeah that’s great. i’ll see you there. hope you ain’t a lightweight

[5:19 PM] i was gonna say the same thing. see you there bill

Bill slips his phone into his pocket and scratches the back of his head. His heart beats hard against his ribs. His face heats up with a blush. He can't remember a time that he was more excited in the past few months. Maybe his mom had it right- he’s been in a funk.

He doesn't end up doing much. He takes a shower and lays in bed with his eyes closed for ten minutes and, when he realizes his attempt is futile, goes out onto his balcony to watch the sun set. Bill smokes through most of a pack.

His creeping anxiety matches his excitement. He knows next to nothing about Joe.

/

“How’d you lose your leg, Joe?”

Bill's somewhere past wasted, whole body warmed up and a crooked smile on his face.

Joe, on the other hand, has been drinking as much as he has, if not more, and can't be beyond tipsy. Bill'd be embarrassed if he were sober.

Joe's turned out to be great. Bill's glad he didn’t stand him up from anxiety. He’d paid for his drinks, even when Bill insisted he shouldn’t, and held up a conversation good as anything. It feels natural, being with Joe, but it could be the booze.

Bill is far gone enough to have stopped giving a shit about what comes out of his mouth. Joe doesn't seem to care. Luck's a lady tonight. He answers his question before the thought that Bill did something wrong pushes into to the front of his mind.

“Well,” Joe says, eyes on the Jack in his glass. “I lost it in Afghanistan. We was in a Jeep that had a bomb on it that we didn’t know about. Blew right up, and my leg was clean off. Got some shrapnel up in my back. All over the place.” Bill nods, leaning closer and setting his hand on the stump of Joe’s leg.

“That’s… That’s fucked up.” He runs his hand up to Joe’s hip without a care in the world, and takes in his face from up close.

Joe doesn't touch him back. He doesn't lean away, either, just tilts his head like he's going to kiss him. Bill wants it so bad he thinks his body's shaking. Maybe it is.

“Yeah,” Bill says. "Cooler than how I lost mine. Got fucked up in an accident when I was a kid." He's close enough to seize the day, press their lips together. “I- I’ve got a really nice apartment. I think you’d like it.”

“I think I would.” Joe’s tone is low. Bill shivers at it and feels cliché.

“I’ll drive,” Bill says. “I’ve driven drunker.”

Joe smiles at him, not quite all the way. “If you wanna lose your other goddamn leg.”

/

Bill kisses Joe as soon as he stumbles into his apartment, a hand on his right wrist, around the ink. There's still distance between them for an instant. Joe snags him around the waist and pulls him flush on his body, slips his tongue into his mouth. He tastes like the booze they drank and the sweetness in his voice.

Joe breaks off for air after what's forever and not long enough at once. The look Bill's getting makes him burn, makes his skin crawl. “My apartment’s shit,” he admits, moving his hand up to Joe's shoulder. “I just wanted to go home with you.”

“Ah. Should've known better," Joe says, and leans down to kiss him again.

Bill slaps a hand over Joe's mouth. A muffled swear comes out from under his hand. "Shit. Are you asexual? I gotta buddy who is. And I wanna fuck you, but, like. Shit." His head's swimming with want and whiskey, words mixing up as they come. "I don't care if you are, 'cause I think you're cool as shit."

Joe grabs Bill's hand at the wrist to get it away from his mouth. "I ain't ace. And I'm guessin' you ain't if you're talkin' about fucking me." There's the curl to his mouth, the I'm-laughing-at-you one. Bill hates it and loves it and the confusion between that is fucking annoying.

Bill catches the back of Joe’s neck with his other hand, leaning up some to close the gap between them.

Joe sighs against his lips, fingers firm on his jaw. Bill inches closer and bites at Joe’s lower lip.

Before Joe can respond, Bill's pulling him to his room. He trips and covers for it by pushing Joe against a wall to kiss up his neck.

"Bill, quit fuckin' around," Joe says, voice coming out strangled. "Just-"

Bill sucks at the skin where Joe’s pulse beats hard and leans back to stare at him. His head is pressed against the wall, throat bared. "Just what?"

"Just come on." His mouth is curling again. Bill wants nothing more than to wipe it off his face. That motivates him to get back to pulling Joe.

Joe trips this time and he doesn't have Bill's tact. His nails scrape over his forearm when Bill falls with him to the floor.

Bill settles on top of Joe, legs on either side of his hips, and grins. “I guess I have a good… A good carpet.”

“Ain't that some shit? I can fuckin' see a Koolaid stain right by your knee." Bill laughs, closing his eyes. He's right. He really did bring Joe to his shitty home for the exclusive purpose of screwing him.

Joe's not looking at the stain anymore. His thumbs dig into his sides- that's what gets his attention back- and his eyes are somewhere lower. "Neither of us is ace, but you ain't too drunk, right? You're gay or bi or whatever and I'm not violatin' consent?"

Bill kisses him again.

/

Bill wakes up with a pounding head, pants unbuttoned and halfway down his ass, and an inked arm thrown across his chest. His back aches.

He tugs his pants up and rolls over, groaning at the pain in his head that comes from the movement. Joe's on his stomach, his head turned toward him, still asleep.

“Fuck,” he whispers, between ashamed and proud of fucking Joe. He remembers Joe asking if he really wanted it. That wasn't the only gentlemanly thing he did, but it's too early in the morning to sift through all of it.

Joe's shirtless. His tattoo goes past his upper arm, curving over a sugar skull on the ball of his shoulder and twisting down his back, over the right side of his ribs.

“Goddamn.” Bill presses his thumb into the skull's teeth. A jolt of something electric goes up his spine.

Joe twitches in his sleep and Bill moves away. He pushes himself off the carpet and lurches into his kitchen.

He zips his pants, struggles to get a glass of water and button everything up. Bill downs it when he succeeds, fills it again- two-handed, and scrounges for a couple Ibuprofen to dump in. Early light cuts through the glass and makes his fingers look twisted and strange. It's a bit much for his hungover brain.

“Morning,” Joe says, coming up beside him.

Bill whips around. A few splashes of water spill over his fingers. He’d just swallowed the pills and finds them back in his throat with a choking noise. Christ.

“Here you go.” Bill turns to him after he swallows the pills again and offers him the glass. Joe takes it and drinks without question. Bill watches the way his Adam's apple moves and closes his eyes to keep from getting thirsty for something other than water. There's a hickey at his pulse point, purple and blue. And his.

Joe sets it down on the counter and regards Bill in silence. "I gotta get to work, but if you wanna do this again, that’d be… that’d be cool.”

Bill nods again and, half a moment later, winces from the throbbing in his head. “Yeah. You got my number.”

Joe gives him a thumbs up and smiles. Fuck, he's a nerd. Bill would’ve laughed if he weren’t in pain.

He reaches out a hand when Joe turns away, catching the side of his neck. Joe looks back at him, one of his eyebrows up. Bill could kiss him, and hell, it’d be easy. Joe might even kiss him back. He’d just said he wanted to get wasted and have sex with him again sometime. And his eyelashes are so fucking long, Jesus.

“I’ll be seeing you,” is all he says. Joe gives him one of his half-smiles. Bill doesn't stop him leaving again.

When he's gone, Bill turns back to his counter, balling his hands into fists and looking down at them.

“Babe’s gonna have the time of his fuckin’ life when he hears this," he says, watching his knuckles turn white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates are probably gonna come on fridays but ill be out of town for a bit soon, so no guarantees.
> 
> gene's a trans guy if you didnt pick that up. more of my trashy queer hcs to come in later chapters.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> luz is nonbinary and uses they/them pronouns. prematurely sorry for any confusion that might cause. unbeta'd and uploaded from a car in tennessee- prematurely sorry for any fuckups from that, too.

Bill was right.

"You what?" Babe's voice crackles, high and loud and fucking terrible, over the phone. He holds his phone a few inches from his ear so he doesn't have to hear Babe's excited breathing up close and personal.

"We fucked. Went to the bar, got... pretty drunk." Like hell he'll admit he was smashed. "I took him home and did him on the floor because we're degenerate fuckin' disabled queers that can't make it to a fuckin' bed without tripping." He rolls his eyes with his last words, but Babe's laughter makes it worth it.

"You already know what I'm gonna ask, dude," Babe says. There's just enough of a smooth coating of mischief on the sentence that Bill wants to roll his eyes again until they fall out of his skull.

He sighs out. If he holds long enough, Babe'll beg, but Bill's still too happy with the results of the meeting to keep his mouth sealed like he should. "His dick game's fuckin' fine, Christ, you thirsty motherfuck. Next time, I'll take a picture and you can compare with your fiancé."

Bill's never heard someone choke on their own spit but himself until Babe does it then, scrabbling for a comeback. "Shut up!"

"Creative," Bill says, leaning onto his counter and glancing up at the ceiling. He's flustered from that, thinking of when he was texting Joe. He doesn't know if any place in his house will ever be the same again.

"Gene's dick is off-limits to shitty comments, please and thank you." Babe finally says, and Bill hears an all-too-familiar laugh in the background.

Gene and Babe balance each other out, he'll admit. Introvert and extrovert, reserved and emotional, chill and no chill, respectively.

"Gene's dick is off-limits, period. I didn't fuckin' ask to see it. You wantin' to fuck with the biggest dick bachelor 'cause your boy's ace got nothin' to do with me." He regrets his words as soon as he closes his mouth.

"Yeah, 'cause your dick's fuckin' tiny," Babe says. He set himself up for that one and he can't do shit but sigh.

His phone buzzes and Babe oohs. "Who's it from, kid?" His voice is disgustingly close to lyrical. Bill gags and takes it away from his ear again to check. When he reads the text, he almost gags again.

[12:41 PM] I need you to come in early tomorrow.

"Shit, it's my boss," Bill says.

"The one with the greasy hair and the chin that just... like... disappears into his neck?" Babe asks.

"Yeah. Saggy Sobel." Bill's all too used to having to shut his mouth and comply.

What are the times?

He hates texting like he cares about grammar.

[12:42 PM] I don't pay you to ask questions.

"And I don't pay you to suck my ass, but I'm sure, if I asked..." he mutters. Babe's "what?" goes almost unheard.

You do pay me to not form labor unions for overworking, Mr. Sobel.

[12:42 PM] Four to midnight.

I'll be there.

Sobel reads the message, but doesn't respond. It's like they're teenagers.

"Sobel's having me come in from four to midnight tomorrow," Bill repeats to Babe. He's always surprised when Babe shuts his mouth for more than a couple of minutes.

"Guess you're pretty fucked for afternoon dick, bro," Babe says with fake sympathy. "But really. Shut the hell up. Four to twelve's a normal shift."

"Bite me, dude. I gotta go." Bill doesn't have to, but he can only take Babe for so long. Especially when he's teasing him so much about dicks.

/

The bell to the gas station jingles around eleven thirty. Bill's leaned up against the counter and the cash register, hiding his phone between both. Malark's shift ended at eleven, so he's working graveyard alone and any customer tells him to not be on his phone can eat shit.

He looks up, already imagining the too-white soccer mom who'll tell him to do his job right, and jumps when he sees Joe. Actually jumps. He bangs his knee against the counter, drops his phone, and covers his mouth to keep back a swear.

Joe doesn't notice. Bill picks up his phone and cringes when a wad of gum on the underside of the counter sticks to his thumb. Fucking karma. He straightens up. Joe moves in a sea of Chester's hot fries and lubricated condoms, grabs a bottle of pills off the shelf and skims the label.

He comes to the counter in a daze and sets down the bottle with a clatter. "Joe," he says, picking up the pills and shaking them. "Hey. Joe."

Joe looks up after the second time Bill says his name. His eyes are empty and his face is pale. He's fragile, like Bill could reach out and touch him and he'd crumble into dust. He smiles as warm and inviting as he can, though.

"Huh," Joe says.

Bill's stomach twists. Joe didn't want to see him again, probably, and didn't have the balls to say it. Of course he'll start acting cold. He rings up the pills- some shit for sleep- just to do something with his hands and keep himself from asking what's up.

"That'll be 2.99." His voice comes out mechanical. He's used to it now, the rejection. Shit. The first time in a while that he wants to branch out from one-night stands and he gets fucked over. He was ridiculous to think that he could've had a chance with Joe. Weeks of pining do that to a guy.

Joe pulls a five out of his wallet and sets it on the counter, still spotted with Coke some guy in a Rolling Stones shirt spilled earlier.

Bill goes over the amount of change in his head and hates how his hand shakes when he pushes the money at Joe. "You want your receipt?"

It takes a second for Bill to realize that Joe shrugged. He tears off the receipt and sticks it under the pills. Fuck him. "Have a good night."

Joe doesn't say anything, just shuffles out like a fucking zombie or something. God damn.

Bill spends the next twenty minutes in bored silence. Cleaning for closing is almost automatic. He's glad for the routine.

/

"He fucking snubbed me," Bill says, face pressed into the couch. He's got Babe on the phone, even though it's one in the morning and a less devastated self would know not to. "Gave me the fucking silent treatment."

Babe's muffled when his "What?" comes through the speaker. He's been saying that a lot lately.

He should've called one of his buddies from college, like Dick or Carwood, because they're half-decent at advice.

Bill blows breath out through his nose and it sounds just as muffled as Babe against his couch cushion. "He fuckin' snubbed me. Came in during work and didn't even say hey or nothing. He was acting like he was sleepwalkin'."

There's silence for a good thirty seconds before Babe responds. Bill, now that he's safe at home and thinking clearer, imagines him running a hand down his face in exasperation. "He was probably just drunk or tired. What'd you say he had when y'all were at the bar?" Babe's accent is thicker and his voice his rougher from sleep.

"Seven shots of whiskey. Matched-"

"And what kinda drunk is he?"

"Real quiet. Kinda acts weird, you know, like the real him's stuck up in the back of his head." Bill's already seeing Babe's argument after he finishes.

"Then I just bet he came in drunk or something. Case closed. Text him in the morning and, like, bring a case of water and suck his dick to help with his hangover." Bill smiles and rolls onto his back, covers his eyes with the inside of his elbow.

"Can you fuckin' stop talkin' about dick just 'cause you don't get to use yours?" he asks. He wouldn't mind going over and doing that, because he usually only sucks dick on the first date and they skipped right over his unspoken rule. Babe doesn't say anything to that. "I'll text. Shit. Why I gotta always jump to conclusions?"

A heavy breath comes through the phone. Babe fell asleep. "Why I gotta always jump to conclusions?" he repeats, so loud he hears it echo off the walls of his empty apartment.

"Because you're used to gettin' let down," Babe says. "Wild shit like that. You've got the world's biggest fucking chip on your shoulder." There's a pause. "I got work in the morning and you're gonna make me wake up Gene, so you can eat my fucking ass if you think I'm gonna stay up and play doctor, Gonorrhea."

"You big baby," he says, but hangs up anyway. He keeps his arm over his eyes and falls asleep on the couch.

/

Bill waits until noon to text. He's woken up later with a hangover a few times, but eleven's a good time as an average. And most guys need an hour to roll out of bed and get their shit together. Shit. He's overthinking.

were you wasted off your ass last night? you came to my register

Some fifteen minutes, it's got to be, of ignoring his phone and staring at the ceiling pass. He flips onto his side and grabs an Xbox controller off the arm of his couch.

Nothing looks good on Netflix and he's not in the mood for Halo or Call of Duty, not when he's thinking of Joe losing his leg in a Jeep. He scrolls through the Comedy section and presses A while it's still scrolling. White Chicks. Sure.

More time passes. The longer he stares at the duo of Iggy Azalea impostors without a response from Joe, the worse he feels. He came in expecting too much. Expecting rejection should've been the first of them.

They'd had only a few conversations and fucked once. Bill doesn't even know him. He might want to, might think he does, but he doesn't. And Joe probably doesn't want him around unless he's drunk or only in a position to make small talk.

In the back of his mind, he knows he's giving up too easy. "I'm just lookin' out for myself," he says to the screen, propping his head up in his hand. "And I got my fuckin' game back. I don't need to play no fuckboy phone tag."

The gears in his head start turning. He's got his game back. Fuckboy. Fuck boy. He gets up off his couch. "Good idea, Bill," he says, and heads for the shower.

/

At the bar, Bill meets a guy with a barrel chest and a smile that cuts like a knife. He tells Bill his name, but between the drinks he's getting, he only remembers the first letter: R. R doesn't talk much. He talks enough for Bill to follow him into the bathroom after an hour and some five drinks.

"Hope you don't think I'm going down on my knees in that stall," he says, after R tries to push him into one. R grabs him someplace low and bites into his neck, a silent protest. Bill manages to get into the one next to it, even with his head getting muggier between R's hand and the booze.

This stall's linoleum isn't shining with the piss of twelve drunk guys before him, so he sinks down and reaches for R's belt.

"Fuck," R says, curling a hand into Bill's hair and leaning the back of his head against the door. "Jesus, Lip."

Bill doesn't know if that's someone's name or a warning. He's got a feeling it was a name with how he moaned it out and tried to move from where his hips were pinned. If it was, Bill doesn't care. They're both trying to forget someone. He tries more tongue, maybe some teeth, anyway.

/

Sunday skips by as fast as Bill scrolls through shows on Netflix, eats his remaining Hot Pockets, and nurses his throbbing head. On Monday, his encounter with R's a fading memory and he's back to feeling shitty. The only reason he drags his nasty, sorry ass off the couch- aside from pissing- to shave and shower is that he could see Joe. His PT appointment is today.

It's pitiful, he knows. He wants to be done with what-could've-beens. Joe might just end up snubbing him even harder anyway.

He makes the drive with a thermos of coffee and a few cigarettes. Jane seems to pick up on his mood, so she keeps his checking in short and smooth. He doesn't bother with the magazines, just switches looking between his hands and the wall. He picks under his fingernails instead of biting them.

Joe doesn't come in at any time before, during, or after Bill's appointment. Not even Dr. Lemaire's calming touch and exercises can get his mind off seeing Joe on the elliptical or balance ball.

Bill puts aside his shitty rejection-induced feelings and growing resentment on the drive back. Joe could've gotten lobotomized or had some weird, tragic shit happen to him. There's fear in his gut instead of anger, now, and he doesn't know which is worse.

When he gets back to his apartment, any thoughts about that leave his mind. The door is half open. He locked it on his way out.

"I swear to fuck," he says from the threshold, pulling out his phone and dialing 911 after he gets it unlocked. Fuck walking in there and asking if anyone's there like a typical white guy in a horror movie. "If anyone's in there, I'm going to get a baseball bat from my car, call the cops, and beat the shit outta you."

A hand reaches out from behind the door and jerks him inside, wrapping an arm around his ribs. Bill screams and jams an elbow into the stomach of his attacker.

"Jesus fuck," the person says, and Bill realizes what person it is after a second. "Quite an elbow there. So much for a surprise party, then, huh?"

"Luz, I swear, if you don't let me go right now, I'm gonna rip off your arm and beat you with the bloody end of it."

"That's no way to talk to someone who's gonna take you out to the bar, now, is it?" Luz releases him anyway. He flicks on the light switch and turns to look at them. "And I don't know if you'd get very far with that. I brought Perco with me. I knew you'd try to beat me up."

"You attacked me first!" Bill spits, and then looks around his apartment, then back to Luz. "Where the hell's Perco? And... And what's this shit about a bar?"

Perco comes out of his kitchen with a Slim Jim hanging out of the corner of his mouth. "Babe said you got figuratively fucked over by some dick after you got literally fucked over by that dick's dick. And that you called him on Friday and he hasn't heard from you since."

"It's fucking four o'clock. I'm not going anywhere right now, assholes," he says.

Perco eats the last of the Slim Jim and goes over to Bill's couch, picking up an Xbox controller and turning it on. "Then we're gonna crush your ass at Halo until we can go."

Bill smacks himself in the forehead. He forgot. "Or later. I gotta shift until ten." He scratches the side of his face, exasperated, at the thought. At least it might get his mind off things.

Luz follows suit. "Then we'll come and harass you until we can take you down to the bar and let some guy crush your ass in an entirely different way," they say. They flop onto the couch. Perco stays standing.

Bill doesn't know why he's friends with these guys before Perco gets an arm around his neck and wrestles him into his room so he can change into his uniform.

"Perco, you're not the one who's supposed to crush his ass!" Luz yells from the couch. And then he does.

/

Bill remembers the first time he went for a ride in Luz's car. They'd just started being friends, some seven years ago, when he was a junior in high school with a summer job at Wendy's. The thing dated back to the 70's.

"You can't fuckin' expect me to get in this fucking Shaggin' Wagon, Luz," he'd said.

Luz ran their hand down the paint- orange and green, almost a recreation of the fucking Mystery Bus- and scoffed. "Gonorrhea, you are possibly the most uncultured piece of car-despising shit that I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. No wonder why you flunked the AZVABs." Bill pulled the lobe of his ear, embarrassed. "This is a VW Bus, and if you call it a Shaggin' Wagon, I will beat the shit out of you. No free love is permitted."

Silence fell thick between them on the sidewalk outside of Bill's mom's house. "Fine, man. VW Bus. I just wanted you to fuckin' drive me to work. That's all."

"Then get in," they'd said. "It's unlocked."

Bill did. The smell of weed was masked with about fifty little air freshener charms hanging down from the rear view mirror, and a rainbow of blankets piled high in the backseat. Luz could grill him on car names all they wanted, but Bill had a good feeling a whole lot of shagging had gone on in the back of the not-wagon. Luz slid in beside him.

"Well?" they said, drumming their fingers on the steering wheel.

Bill slammed his door shut and grinned. "I got the perfect name for this giant piece of shit and scrap metal."

He looks out the grimy window of the gas station. Luz's Huss Bus sits in the parking spaces up against the curb, intact after years of their careful maintenance. He smiles and shakes his head.

Once again, Eagle Head Gas Station isn't busy. Some kids just left with enough Red Bulls to make them meet early deaths, but that aside, he's working the shift alone and few people drop by for anything but gas at six o' clock on a Monday. Sobel's doing some finance shit in the back and Malark's supposed drop in around seven.

"Gonorrhea! Heads up!" Luz says. Bill looks up just in time to catch a shitty Nerf football flying at what would be smack in the middle of his face. Well, catch is too strong a word- he smacks it out of the way and watches it crash into a triangular display of Coke cans. Shit. He spent two God forsaken hours on that.

"Gol!" Luz shouts, throwing their hands up in the air.

"This isn't even soccer, shithead," Perco says.

"I am going to beat your asses," he says, going around the counter. Luz cowers behind a shelf with their hands up and Perco collects the ball, fearless. "When someone buys this bullshit, it'll explode in their face. And then Sobel's gonna explode in my face."

"Not in the way that you'd like," Perco jams him in the side with an elbow as he says it and Bill wishes for the sweet release of death to take him. It's a wonder Sobel hasn't come out, guns blazing.

Perco helps him restore the cans to their original shape and, after a minute, Luz emerges from their hiding place and does the same. It goes a lot faster with six hands, especially with Luz- they pop Adderall on a regular basis, and if they're not tripping on that, they've got the energy of one thousand young suns burning inside anyway.

The bell jingles. Bill hurries back to the counter, but not without a parting, "No more fuckin' football or I will literally skin both your asses."

It's just some old white guy with armpit stains on his white t-shirt and mile-long bags under his eyes. He buys a fifty-four ounce soda and leaves.

Luz and Perco are next up at the counter. They both slam down a six pack of some beer less shitty than Bud Lite.

"I'm gonna need some ID," Bill says.

Luz eyes Perco like they'd been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. "Shit! You forgot to pick up our fakes from Skip! I mean, our totally legal IDs. From the DMV."

Bill rings them up, squinting to hide a smile. "Is it loitering if we sit outside and drink these?" Perco asks.

"Yeah, and when Malark comes, he'll kick your asses to the curb. Drink that shit in the Huss Bus."

They groan their way out. Malark gives Bill a curious look on his way in. "Speak of the red-head and he shall appear," Bill says.

"Gonorrhea's accusing us of premature loitering," Luz says, setting a hand on Malark's shoulder. "That's even more bullshit than your last name."

Malark shrugs. "If you don't get out and do whatever Gonorrhea said, I'll offer to go in the back of your Huss Bus for a fifty, catch it on camera, and have him call the cops so y'all can get arrested for soliciting instead."

Luz spends the next twenty minutes drinking their beer and glaring at him through the front mirror of the Huss Bus. Then, they get too buzzed to hold a grudge and start fucking around on their phone. Typical.

"Skip got a new job down at that kid's daycare by your place with Smokey," Malark says, after he gives a receipt to biker with a tattoo sleeve of a girl in a bikini.

"Shit, really?" Bill's cleaning up some of the spills under the soda machine. His brain's already numb with boredom.

"Oh, yeah. He really likes it. And the kids are just as much of troublemakers as he is, so he comes home with more chill. But that ain't what he's been talking nonstop on." Bill looks up and catches the knowing look Malark gives him. News travels fast in their group of twenty-somethings with boring lives.

He sighs and scrubs a stubborn stain. "His name was Joe. Met him at PT- you know how my ma's makin' me do that. We fucked around and-"

"Didn't do your job correctly!" Sobel finishes the sentence for him as smooth as sandpaper, stalking over. Bill swears in his mind and Malark busies himself with the cash register. He speaks again when he's face-to-face with Bill. Bill can't see the front window from where he is, but he has a feeling Luz is recording.

"You do not clean up until closing, Guarnere. Why are you here if you can't do your job?" Sobel's breath is rank.

In a perfect world, Bill would say, "I need money from this shitty job to live in the economy your nasty, no-chin ass ruined." Instead, he ducks his head and says, "I can do my job, sir. Won't happen again."

There's a couple of teenage girls in the doorway, looking in on the spectacle. Quiet comes and the vein on the side of Sobel's forehead pulses. They leave giggling.

"Your idiocy, Guarnere, just made us lose customers. You can bet it won't happen again, because the next time it does, you'll be looking in the Classifieds for a year." Sobel jams an uncut fingernail at Bill's chest and disappears again.

Bill returns to the counter. "Luz and Perco have been dicking around for the past two fucking hours," he says, quiet enough for just Malark to hear. "I guess he stopped jerking it long enough to check the cameras."

Malark covers his mouth with his hand to stifle his laughter. "You were saying something about Joe?"

/

Their night at the bar- some new place that Luz swore up and down was great- has been uneventful. It's not even a bar. Electronic club music pulses in his ears and neon lights shine down on a mess of bodies on the dance floor.

He was happier when they were fucking around at the gas station. Shit, it would've been easier to pick up there.

Luz and Perco came to get him a hookup. Bill hasn't seen any guys that catch his interest yet, though, so Perco's getting drunker by the second and Luz is probably doing ecstasy, coke, or both, in the bathroom. It's always bad to go out on Mondays.

Bill's only had a few shots of weak shit. His cynicism is starting to fester.

Perco slings an arm around his shoulders, mouth too close to his ear. "Hey, look. At the bar. Think you'll like that one."

Bill follows Perco's wobbling finger and sees Joe. His mouth goes dry and his hands start to sweat.

Of course. He goes out so he can forget about him and this is the first place he pops up. He's saying something to the bartender. Bill's cynicism turns over into boiling anger. He picks up a shot from the two-seat table they're sitting at and slams it.

"You're right," he says, and leaves Perco swaying in a stool. He's going to get answers.

Before he can reach him, a sharp face cuts into his line of vision. "On the prowl, Gonorrhea?"

"I don't have time for your shit right now, Joe."

Bill doesn't hate Liebgott. They fought once at one of Luz's house parties a few years ago, and sure, their relationship consists of them roasting each other in public and Bill beating the shit out of him at FIFA in private, but he doesn't hate him. He just isn't in the mood for roasting the certain brand of Joe he's been presented with at the moment.

"Come on, man, what's your damage?" Joe gives him a friendly shove in the chest, smile crooked.

"I'm not fuckin' damaged," he snaps. Maybe those shots weren't so weak after all. His vision is starting to blur.

"It's a boy then. What'sa matter? Dick so big he made you emotionally and physically constipated?" Joe's grinning at him one second, and the next, he's staggering back, blood dripping out of his mouth. It's purple under the blue of one of the strobe lights.

"What the fuck?" Joe snarls, when he comes lurching back. He hits him square in the jaw with one fist and bludgeons his lip with the other, lightning fast. He must not have those mint condition Flash Gordon comics for nothing. "Can't a guy have a little fun?"

Bill just hits him again, going lower this time. Liebgott goes to the ground. He follows him down, prepares to smash his face into the floor, and then there's arms circling around his and he's being held against someone's chest. They're strong as shit, wrenching him upright. Fuck. A bouncer's holding Liebgott back, so that must be who's got him.

Another bouncer comes over, and that's when he realizes it's not who he thought it was. "Jesus, Bill, you all right?" Joe, his Joe, says in his ear. He can't spit anything back.

"Come on, guys," the bouncer says, ushering them to a back door. Liebgott's already gone in the sea of people. "You have to leave."


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uploaded from mobile again. sorry for any mistakes from that.

The bouncer's face is set in stone when he slams the club's back door in Bill's face.

"You really fuckin' done it this time, Toye," he says, conversational, staring at the fluorescent pink spray paint on the dark door. He juts out his jaw when he grins, though it's more of a grimace, and enjoys the ache of it. Liebgott landed a square one on him, that's for sure.

"This my fault? If you didn't have a fucking seizure when you saw that kid, I'd still be in there, buying shots." He doesn't speak with any real venom. That just makes Bill more mad.

Christ. It has to be Joe who moms him while somehow ripping him a new asshole.

Joe's face swims into his sight, nose-to-nose in darkness. Bill doesn't take a step back. "What's your deal, huh? Rat-face white fuckboys your type? You never learn how to deal with your feelings so you slam your boy's face into the fuckin' dance floor? Go on and suck his dick."

Bill strikes out. His anger is still a raw wound from the unfinished fight. Reason takes the backseat. "Ain't your fuckin' job to tell me what I want. You ain't even know me."

Pain shoots up his arm as fast as the punch happens. Something thumps against the door- the back of Joe's head, he realizes. It's dreamlike, seeing blood between Joe's bared teeth, oozing over his lips, stretched around a grimace.

"Fucking shit, Joe, I didn't mean... sorry." Bill reaches out for him, but his hand drops to his side again.

"Shut your unhinged goddamn yap, Bill."

Joe's fingers dig into Bill's shoulders- Christ, talk about a grip- and slam him into the brick wall by the door. Blood slicks over his lips when Joe kisses him. It's iron and cologne, fire and brimstone.

Bill doesn't mind and he does. It hasn't been two weeks and he's already missed it. The part of him that wants an explanation for the weird past few days is dying fast between booze and Joe's broad chest pressed on his.

And yet he's never been easy.

"What, you fuckin' get off on this shit?" Bill asks, shoving at Joe. He's a brick shithouse, though. Not going anywhere. Bill grabs a handful of Joe's short curls. "Surprised you're not the one who fought Liebgott. You nasty." Bill lacks venom as much as Joe had.

"Your dick'd say the opposite," Joe says, jamming a leg between Bill's thighs. The drag on it from Joe's jeans and the noise that bubbles in the back of Bill's throat prove him right. Fuck.

"Arousal don't mean consent. Get fucked," he says.

"Tell me to stop and I fuckin' will." Bill trusts him, and maybe he shouldn't.

This time, he rams his body into Joe's, getting him up against the opposite wall. Bill kisses him bruised, Joe biting his lips, until he doesn't know if it's his blood or Joe's on his tongue. He leaves red marks down Joe's neck, down to the jut of his collarbones. His teeth sink into the skin. 

"In my car," Joe gasps at him, and his low voice pulls a string somewhere deep inside Bill.

Maybe Joe'll hit that string. With his dick. If they're going to his car for anything other than a friendly ride home.

In his back pocket, his phone buzzes. He ignores it.

There's no tripping now. Bill's less drunk than the first time and even more determined. Fuck fighting, he's getting some. He links hands with Joe and lets himself be led out of the uneven alley, onto the street.

"You know, my daddy owned this thing before I did," Joe says, regarding the Cadillac under a yellow streetlight's glare. "Died when I was a kid, though. Left me it in his will."

He has no clue why Joe's telling him that shit. Still, Bill's ashamed and superstitious, even as he's jamming Joe into the backseat and closing the door behind them. The thing creaks in protest at both their weights and Bill laughs. "Shit, was he homophobic? Car sounds like it might've gotten that from him."

"Yeah. Hope I don't have no damn white guy ghost in my car, blood or otherwise." Joe's already leaning against the door. He slings an arm over his waist and tries to pull Bill over his hips, but he squirms away.

"Wait," Bill says, and sinks to his knees, head between Joe's legs. It's cramped, stuck up on the other door. Joe sets a hand on his shoulder like he knows what's coming, leans his head back on the window. "If it's anyone's dick I'm suckin' tonight, it's sure as fuck not Liebgott's." He's been more uncomfortable to prove a point before.

Joe's fingers find the back of his head, thumb brushing just below the fade of his hair cut, and Bill looks up at him through his eyelashes. "I swear to fuck, if you pull my hair or try to choke me on your dick, I'll bite it off." His touch is light. Bill's had too many gross encounters in the disabled stalls of clubs, though.

He thinks about what happened last week, when everything was fucked up, and shuts it out as soon as it comes in.

"Note taken," Joe says.

/

"You all right, Joe?" Bill asks, evening out his breathing.

"Fuckin' peachy." He grins. Bill returns it. His lip splits all over again, but he's not thinking of Liebgott much anymore.

Joe reaches for a box of tissues in the front seat and wipes them off. Bill wriggles back into his jeans and Joe buttons up.

"I'm gettin' some fuckin' Taco Bell, Bill," Joe says, sliding out from under him into the front seat. "I'll get you something if you want."

"Man, you gettin' that shitass unhealthy shit. I'd go so far to say you ain't even a real Mexican," Bill says. He slips into the passenger and pushes his jacket up onto the dash, ignoring the ache in his hips. 

Joe looks at Bill like he slapped him. "This is my car," he says, and starts the engine. "If you get home, I'm probably getting you there."

"And I got you here by fighting Liebgott." Bill waves a hand at him. "Here means the best lay of your fuckin' life and Taco Bell after. So I ain't wanna hear it." 

Bill licks the corner of his mouth and hopes the cashier won't ask about the blood on their lips. And speaking of not asking about things.

"Joe, honestly, that was probably the second best car sex I've ever had and I don't wanna ruin the mood," he says, reaching up and adjusting the crooked rear view mirror without thinking, "but we gotta fuckin' talk about some shit." For a second, he doesn't think Joe heard. He's punching 'taco bell' into the Maps app with drunken fingers that refuse to comply.

The green digital light of the car's clock ticks to 1:23 and Bill makes a wish. He also realizes Joe- or someone Joe knows- is a fucking mechanical prodigy if they put a modern radio in a Stone Age Cadillac. Then Joe gets the address in and looks over. "What's up?" 

Bill picks under his fingernails and pretends he doesn't feel anything when he looks at Joe. "You came into my work, like, a while ago, like you were sleepwalking. Didn't even say hey to me or nothing." He pauses for a breath. His sober self would wonder if he was going too far, but he just needs to organize his thoughts. "And then you didn't respond to my texts, so I was wondering if something bad happened to you or whatever. I didn't wanna be clingy and shit by texting again, though. And you didn't come to PT today. I mean, I get if you just want this to be some friends with benefits shit, I don't mind, but, like. Are you okay?"

Joe pulls out of his spot and starts out on the empty road. There's silence for a while aside from Siri chattering. Bill sobers up through it, thinks through what he can remember himself saying- his short-term memory is even worse when drunk- and considers apologizing.

"You know how I said I lost my leg in the service?" Joe says. His voice is rough and small and Bill's not sure he likes where this is going. He doesn't need Siri to tell him that Emotion Avenue is where they're headed.

"Yeah." Bill picks under his thumbnail, a little too hard and a little too deep, and he bites back a swear from the sharp pain.

"I got PTSD. So I get real bad nightmares sometimes, if you feel me. And I usually do this thing called disassociating after. Like I lose my sense of self for a while. Just a coping mechanism." Joe goes quiet and squints at the street sign they pass, then looks at his phone. "Fuck. Missed my turn."

Joe rights his wrong with an illegal U-ie and starts up again. "I guess I must've come into your work while I was doin' that. Don't remember. And then I get depressed as shit when I come back from whatever that shit is. That's why I didn't answer your texts or go today. Because I felt like shit."

"Destination is on your right," Siri chimes, none too helpfully. The giant, bright sign was made so stoners could see it for miles. Bill could bet money on that.

"I'm sorry, Joe," Bill says, and it's genuine. 

"No. Don't be, that's fuckin' ridiculous. I'm not sorry, because I can't help this shit, but that also don't mean it's your fault. Or some shit." Joe pulls up beside the drive-thru speaker and rolls down his window. There's just static from it. Joe looks over at him.

"I am sorry if I made you feel like shit, though. I really like you, Bill. You're the first person that I've had sex with twice since last year." Bill's leaning over the console, toward Joe. It's unintended and kind of embarrassing until Joe leans in, too, and kisses him.

And here he'd thought he'd never been easy.

It's different than the kisses outside the bar. Joe's fingers are gentle on his jaw. His thumb just barely touches his chin. Bill sets a hand on his chest. The speaker crackles to life and the person launches into asking if they'd like the newest cheap imitation of Latino eats, but Joe's slipping him some tongue and he doesn't want it to stop.

Bill slides his tongue over Joe's and Joe fucking moans, loud and clear and inappropriate for a Taco Bell drive-thru. They spring apart. He feels sixteen again.

"Sorry," Joe says to the speaker, scratching the back of his neck. The fluorescent light from the menu is strong. Bill still catches how Joe's whole face darkens. He orders fast and then looks over at Bill. "You want something?"

"Uh, yeah. A Doritos Locos- the Fiery kind- if that don't bust your balls too bad." Joe parrots a not ball-busting-involving version to whatever poor employee is on shift this late.

They pull around to the window, and the kid manning it is either high out of his mind or done with the graveyard shift's shit. He gives them both a quick once-over after Joe hands him a twenty. That means he heard Joe or they look fishy. There's too many options tonight. Bill smiles at the guy and tries to lick a little blood off his lip when he's not looking.

Joe gets his change and their food. And no mild sauce, to Bill's displeasure. He sets the bag on the console and Bill rustles through it.

"Bill," Joe says, and he looks up from his critical observation of a Diablo sauce packet. He is too white for this.

"I know you said you didn't mind if we were just friends with benefits. But I'd dig it if you were cool with me taking you out, too. In a more than just friends with benefits way." 

Joe's probably thinking the same thing Bill is: this is fucking wild, we've already fucked twice and we're going to go out on a date.

He starts unwrapping his taco to get over the initial shock. The irresistible smell of cheap meat gets him over it. Joe wants to take him out. Shit, he could take him to a dumpster and it'd be in his Top 5 Dates list. If only because he never dates.

"I'd really fuckin' like that, actually. Especially 'cause you're the kinda dude who eats Taco Bell at one in the morning." He takes a bite, trying not to crunch too loud and failing. "Shit, do you even know where we're going? Not, like, for whatever you wanna do, but, like, to get me home?" he asks, mouth still full. His mother would be screaming if she were with him before she even found out what happened in the backseat.

"No," Joe says. "I think I was tryna go back to my place." He gestures at his phone. It's fallen into one of the cupholders on the console. "Type in your address. I have no fuckin' clue how to get there from here."

There's no lock on Joe's phone. He can dig it. He's about to start typing when Joe swerves on the road. Bill jerks back into his seat. Joe's eyelids are drooping. Perfect. "You know what? You're either still drunk or tired, and I don't really wanna die, so, like, I can crash at your place if that's easier for you. And you're not a fuckin' serial killer."

/

Joe, as it turns out, is probably not a serial killer. Bill asks if he can take a leak when they step into his house and is not greeted by some nasty murder weapons like his life just turned into a gay version of American Horror Story: Asylum when he goes. Or some other cheap horror flick that he didn't just watch with Babe and Gene three months ago.

It's a nice place. An actual house with cool furniture and a good paint job of oranges and blues. Honey-scented soap that smells like legitimate honey is by the bathroom sink, too. 

"You can sleep out here or in the guest bedroom," he says, when Bill returns to the living room just by the front door. "Shit." Joe runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. "You're not allergic to dogs, are you?"

Bill's sure he lights up like a Christmas tree. "No. I fuckin' love dogs. Unless they yap a lot, though. Reminds me too much of myself."

Joe smiles at that. "They're big dogs. And I'm gonna go let them in. The guest bedroom might be your best bet if you don't like gettin' woken up by slobber and raggedy ass chew toys."

He heads into what looks like a kitchen. Bill waits, staring at his reflection on a TV set up against a wall. He hears a door slide open, then clicks of long nails on tile. 

Two dogs come walking in at Joe's heels. "That one's Benito," he says, pointing at one that doesn't look like it has any fur, just black skin. "He's a Mexican Hairless." That answers that. "And that's Domingo. Pharaoh Hound." Domingo regards him with pale eyes, tilted head, and pricked ears.

"Man, they're fuckin' sick," Bill says. He was getting tired, but shit. Add dogs to any equation and he'll be up all night. He tears his eyes off them to look at Joe. "Are they chill with strangers?"

"Yeah. Knock yourself out." 

Bill's phone starts buzzing like hell in his back pocket. He ignores it in favor of getting some sweet dog petting action. 

"I'm gonna turn in for the night. Hit me up if you need anything," Joe says. Bill nods, scratching Benito's chin and between Domingo's ears. 

"Joe," Bill says, when he's about to turn down the hall. Joe makes some kind of noncommittal grunting noise and turns toward him, brows raised. "I'm sorry for punching you earlier. And thank you for the sex."

Joe gives him that mocking amusement look. "You got it." He walks out of Bill's sight and he figures that's for the best.

He chooses the couch and doesn't mind the slobber.

/

Bill's surprised that he doesn't wake up with a hangover. He thinks on it, forces through the mess that was last night, and decides that getting punched in the face, having great car sex, or dogs can cure them.

Domingo- of course Bill remembers his name- is crushing his arm, laying on top of him. Benito is at his feet. "Hey, buddy," he says, scratching him on the side. "Rise'n shine. I gotta get my phone." The dog groans and stretches, then hops off of him. Bill digs his phone out of his jeans.

He has twenty-six new iMessage notifications and three missed calls. When he unlocks his phone, he sees that the texts are scattered between Babe, Perco, Luz, Liebgott, and even Gene. Two calls are from Babe and one's from Luz.

Everyone's fretting about where he's gone- aside from Liebgott, he's just pissed. He adds everyone but him to a group message.

im not bleeding dying or on fire

[7:26 AM, ballbusting babe] you are gonna be when i catch your ass

thats why you dont send me to fuckin shady ass bars so i can get some dick

[7:27 AM, ballbusting babe] remove gene then tell me where you were. he has a psych test today and i dont want him waking up

[7:27 AM, luz memelord] I take one exceedingly long bathroom trip and you disappear into the night!!! What the fuck bill!!!!

[7:27 AM, luz memelord] Perco and i were so worried! More me than perco. He is still throwing up as we speak

[7:27 AM, luz memelord] But really

[7:27 AM, luz memelord] Pls spill the beans

Gene removes himself from the group chat after Luz's last message is accompanied with a distressed-looking Pepe.

[7:28 AM, ballbusting babe] what the fuck is up with you guys gene needs sleep

[7:28 AM, luz memelord] Sorry babe!! Come on bill

i fought liebgott by accident last night and got kicked out of the club

[7:28 AM, luz memelord] What a badass

[7:29 AM, ballbusting babe] where are you then?

i went home with someone

[7:31 AM, ballbusting babe] what, some ugly two-bit hooker gave you gonorrhea for real????

no. the pt guy. kind of an accident

[7:32 AM, ballbusting babe] wtf the fuck bill i am going to fuck your ass up

[7:32 AM, luz memelord] Twice in 24 hours is really not healthy leave him alone for a bit babe...

[7:33 AM, pasta connoisseur] can a guy not fcking vomit in peace or 

[7:33 AM, luz memelord] No

[7:33 AM, ballbusting babe] no!!!!

Babe sends him a private message after that.

[7:33 AM] what is the address i'm picking you up

/

Bill leaves a note under Benito's collar after he manages to coax him off his legs. Hit me up, it says, and he'd have written more if Babe hadn't started honking outside.

Babe looks less mad than Bill thought he'd be. "I was just fuckin' around so Luz'll still be afraid of me," he says, turning off of Joe's street. "And I was kinda pissed that you'd fuck around with him after he dropped you like that."

"Man, they aren't afraid of you worth shit." Bill taps his fingers over the button that rolls the window down. "He and I had a heart-to-heart last night-"

"I'm sure those ain't the only fucking things that were together," Babe mumbles.

Bill rolls his eyes. "Anyway. We talked about shit and that straight up ain't his fault." Babe side-eyes him, hard enough to kill a lesser man. "He's got PTSD that makes a bunch of weirdass shit happen. Guess he had a real bad nightmare or flashback or whatever and was out of it for a few days. He doesn't have anyone to bring him back.And he says he wants to take me out sometime. I trust that shit."

Babe hums, thoughtful. "I know y'all didn't limit y'allselves to a discussion." 

"Babe, you're so fuckin' thirsty, it's almost unbelievable," Bill says. "But I think I made him go cross-eyed. It was pretty cool, 'cause he started saying shit in Spanish. I wish I'd paid more attention in Ms. Perez's class. You know. Eighth grade." Babe opens his mouth and Bill catches him before a word gets out. It's obvious what he's thinking. "I don't think he's just using me as a convenient fuck. We talked on that, too."

He hits a red light. "Gene and I only tried once. Just for the hell of it- you know he's ace as fuck. And he started praying in French. I think he had a holy vision or something. That shit lasted forever. Must've gone through three goddamn prayers."

Bill shrugs. "I guess when you do nothin' but jack it all the time, you gotta get a little good at it on the way." Babe pulls his lips back on his teeth in a pseudo-grimace. Bill's starting to want Taco Bell again- that shit must have some kind of drug in it. He doesn't ask. Something much thirstier than Babe asking for the details of his sex life might happen if he relives Joe kissing him in the drive-thru.

"Man, you know, Taco Bell's been fuckin' ruined for me."

/

Three days later, Joe texts. Bill's anxiety has gone down since he's had time to reflect on everything said on Monday. He trusts him, and not just to stop if he says no. He's sitting in his kitchen with a window open, the smell of pot roast mingling with his cigarettes. The sun's hanging, a solid yellow, in the sky, waiting to set like he waits for his shifts to end. 

It must be fucking boring to be the sun, he thinks.

Babe and Gene are coming over for dinner in an hour. Gene's exams are over. Tomorrow, they'll be in Florida for something much more important to Gene: his pre-op appointment for top surgery. He's been saving for years. Bill has a bottle of red wine in the fridge to celebrate.

He has an overwhelming sense of calm rolling over his shoulders when his phone buzzes.

[6:23 PM] ive heard inside out is good. theres a showing at seven. i could take you to that and then we could go to dinner or something after. if you want

Joe's anxiety is so strong Bill could touch it. He takes a drag off his cigarette and taps ash into his tray, smiling.

im sorry but ive got a couple friends coming over for dinner. im not tryna blow you off tho like id be chill doin that whenever youre free again

He wouldn't mind inviting Joe over for dinner, but he has feeling it's too early for that.

[6:24 PM] oh yeah i feel you. i have shifts til five all this week so i could pick you up around then. whenever you wanna

we could do it tomorrow

[6:24 PM] that works fine. ill see you then bill

Bill lights a new cigarette. He has a feeling the conversation's going to end there and he roots around in his brain for topics. When he doesn't come up with anything that wouldn't get a one-word response, he leans back against the chair, closes his eyes, and draws smoke in hard.

It feels like he has his eyes closed for a minute, but when thumping on his door forces them open and he checks his watch, it's been close to forty. Shit. His cigarette's still burning, almost at his fingertips. "Fuck," he says, crushing it in the tray and scrambling to the door.

"Sorry we're, like, thirty fuckin' minutes early," Babe says after Bill opens the door. He has Doritos and cheap Walmart rum crammed under his arm. "We went to get some shit and it was closer to your place than ours, so."

Babe claps him on the shoulder on his way in. Gene gives him a one-armed hug. Bill grins. "It'll be hugs around the waist so you don't tear your shit up for the next few weeks, right?"

"Right," Gene says. "Thanks for us inviting us over." He looks past Bill for a second, over to Babe. He's already starting up the Xbox. 

Bill shrugs. "Shit, don't thank me. I mean, he comes over and eats everything anyway. Make yourself at home, Gene." He pats Gene on the arm and goes back to the kitchen.

The pot roast is done. He opens the cabinet where he put the buns and finds none. Shit.

He goes back to the living room. Babe's loading FIFA. "Babe, dude, I forgot the buns. I'm gonna run to Walmart and be back in, like, five minutes, probably. Set that shit in the kitchen, too."

"Bill, it's okay, we can eat without them-"

"Damn, you've been too busy getting your buns stuffed with things other than pot roast to remember," Babe interrupts. He gets up from the couch and brings his food into the kitchen, laughing to himself. 

Bill pauses where he stands by the half-open door. "If you don't shut up, I'll shove your head so far up your buns that you'll be tasting your own shit for once instead of spewing it out on everyone else." On the couch, Gene looks like he just swallowed a lemon to keep from laughing.

Bill digs his keys out of his pocket and leaves. He could've sworn he picked that shit up six months ago.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ones a little shorter than id like it to be but i didnt want to put anything in there that was unnecessary lmao. sorry for the late update ive been super slack lately

His mind is already far from dinner with Babe and Gene by the time he gets into his car and keys the ignition. He’s thinking about Joe. 

Jesus, I hope he don’t think I’m tryna blow him off, he thinks, looking at his hands on the steering wheel. I’ll figure out how to make it up to him. Bring his dogs treats or some shit like that after we hang out.

Caught up in his own head, it feels like Joe’s right in the car with him. Maybe he could be if he manifested it hard enough. If that shit’s even real. Tomorrow seems like too long to wait. But he’s waited longer for things that mattered more to him. He’s not a teenager anymore. Bill shakes his head to clear it, starting to focus on the road and-

“Fuck!”

He’s pulling up on a stop sign, just a little too fast, and someone’s there, making their way across a crosswalk with their hands in their pockets. Bill slams on the brake, frantic. If he’d noticed two seconds later, the person would’ve gone flying, close to dead on impact, and if he’d noticed two seconds earlier, he would’ve made a neat, though rolling, stop.

Instead, the bumper of his car hits the person in the legs. The force of it has their side slamming into his hood, then knocking them flat on their ass. Bill’s scrambling out of his car without a second thought, crouching down beside the person. 

“Shit, man, are you all right? I’m so fucking sorry, what the fuck, I wasn’t paying any attention at all. Jesus Christ-”

“Bill?”

He’d been staring at the person’s legs instead of their face. They’d been wearing a hoodie. Now, he does. Joe doesn’t look impassive as he always does. There’s open fear in his eyes and a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. “Oh my God, Joe, I’m literally the biggest fucking piece of shit to be found on Earth. I wasn’t even looking at the road. Are you okay?”

Joe wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, he’s calm. Just that has Bill calming with him, breathing slower. “Yeah, I’m fine. I think your bumper bruised me up a little, that’s all.” Joe looks down, pausing. “And my leg came off.”

Legs coming off would, in Bill’s life experience, be a source of lawsuits and a lifetime of guilt. “Hold up,” he says, brushing the road grit from his palms where it’d been digging in. “I’ll put it back on. Jesus, I’m sorry.” 

Joe starts laughing as Bill’s strapping it into place. “I think our date might be in a court. I could sue your ass to death.”

Bill isn’t in the financial place to be dealing with a lawsuit. And here he thought things were looking up from sucking off random guys to deal with rejection. Instead of thinking about what’s going to happen if Joe does sue, he laughs, too. 

After their laughter fades, Joe smacks him on the back. “I’m just fucking with you. I dig you too much to be pulling bullshit like that. I got blown up by a fucking shell. Bruised ribs and knees and, like, possible internal bleeding ain’t the worst that’ve ever happened.”

Bill sits back and rests his head on his knees. “Thank Christ,” he mumbles. “I would be so fucked. Not only because I’d be bankrupt. I’d also lose one of the hottest guys I’ve ever hung around.” he’s not going to say dated, because they haven’t even done that yet. He’s thinking of ways to make it up to him and one particular one comes to mind. “Are you hungry?”

Joe looks at him like he grew a few extra heads. “Yeah, I mean, I was about to swing by Walmart to get something before you…” he trails off, half-smiling, and that’s almost enough to get Bill laughing again, if only because he can’t believe he just hit him with his car. “Why?”

“I wasn’t lying about having friends over for dinner, dude. I was gonna go to Walmart, too, ‘cause I forgot buns for pot roast.” He starts to pick under his nails. “I don’t mind takin’ you there and payin’ for whatever you want. And I know it’s not gonna make up for a fuckin’ car accident, but I think it’d be cool if you came over. If you wanna.”

Joe grabs Bill’s bumper and pulls himself upright, putting a gentle hand on his ribs. Bill follows suit. “I think that’d be nice. So long as, you know,” and his half-smile is growing as he talks, “I’m not crashing into it.”

Bill smacks himself in the forehead and looks down at his shoes. “I can’t even call fucking awful pun penalty… Come on.” 

Joe’s hand is on the side of his face, then, tilting his chin up. He kisses him for a fraction of a second. Then a car honks, swerving around them, and they jump away from each other. What the hell is with loud noises interrupting us?

“There,” Joe says. “You kissed it better. I ain’t gonna make you pull up my shirt or anything.”

Bill wants to smack himself again. He’s blushing and he shouldn’t be. When he first got on the road, he imagined plenty of scenarios about hitting people and killing them. He did not imagine kissing cute boys and going to dinner with them. 

“Do you mind still going to Walmart to get the buns? And maybe some bandages? Or an ice pack?” He hopes his car’s battery isn’t dying by now. His door’s still open and the light’s still on. Bill scratches the back of his neck.

“No, I don’t.” Joe’s giving him that look, that one fucking awful look, and maybe it’s his guilt, but Bill doesn’t want to hit him any more than he already has.

//

Bill texted Babe in the checkout line. He couldn’t tell if Babe was too thrilled about Joe coming over. It ate at him while he pressed a cheap ice pack onto Joe’s ribs, wrapped bandages around it, in the front seat of his car.

Either way, Bill gives Joe a little introductory talk when he’s pulled back up to his apartment. “The redhead is Babe. Chances are he’s going to say something fuckin’ ridiculous. Don’t pay attention. The other one is Gene. And he might fuss a little over you, ‘cause he’s a mom friend and a medical student. Don’t worry about it.”

Bill brushes off the sleeve of Joe’s shirt. It’s a Daddy Yankee tee- from his Prestige album, don’t listen to that one, it’s not that good, as Joe had told him- and Bill’s already wondering about how hard Babe is going to judge him for listening to somewhat trashy Puerto Rican rappers. It almost feels like Bill’s introducing him to his parents instead of his closest friends.

Babe does judge him. Until he has a couple glasses of wine and focuses more on holding Gene’s hand and letting him do the judging. Bill just sits and steams as hard as what’s left of his pot roast.

“Bill mentioned you were a medical student. What’re you studyin’ for?” Joe asks. He’s better at small talk than Bill could’ve imagined.

“I’m studying to be a registered nurse,” Gene says, eyes on his plate. He’s not quite comfortable with Joe yet. “Have a job lined up at an outpatient care facility. I work night shifts as an EMT for the time being.”

Joe takes a sip of his wine. “I was in the Army, you know. Started out as a medic,” he says. Gene’s eyebrows raise. Joe seems to know as well as Bill does that Gene’s curious about it, silently urging him to talk more. “I had one of our dog handlers come to me with a bite. I said to him, as I’m cleaning that shit out, “Shit, why’d he bite you?” And he tells me the dog did it for no reason. Now, I knew for a fact this guy liked to smack his dogs around, so I tell him, “Well, don’t hit your fuckin’ dogs and you ain’t gonna have no problems like this no more. You’re gonna be on the field and those thing’s sooner gonna bite your balls off than the other guys.” People always say the whole company respects medics and shit, but that guy was higher-ranked and got me a transfer onto the field. And what do you know? One of my buddies, Spina, he tells me a few months later that the guy trained his dogs to go for the balls, just to spite me. Still smacked them around, too. And guess who got discharged for a little turnaround?”

Gene covers his mouth to stifle his laughter at the end of his story. Babe’s not so covert. Just like that, the tension’s been lightened. “Shit, you know, Gene, he talks back all the fuckin’ time to this fuckhead or another, but damn. Most of ‘em don’t ever have to deal with it like he did,” Babe says. 

The rest of the dinner’s spent with Gene and Joe trading stories back and forth. When Babe’s close to wasted and the bags are standing out more than usual under Gene’s eyes, they say their goodbyes.

“It was real nice meeting you, Joe,” Gene says, shaking his hand at the door. “Make sure you come by my hospital the next time Bill hits you with his car.” He winks.

“Yeah, real nice,” Babe parrots, grabbing Joe’s hand in a much looser grip. “Gonorrhea here’s told me all about you.” He hip-checks Bill and hits him against the wall. “You’d better hope you don’t do no more fuckboy shit.”

Gene whisks him out of the doorway after that, muttering an apology. Joe leans against the door after he closes it. “Gonorrhea, huh?” he asks, smiling some.

Bill shrugs and grins. “One time during my junior year, I swear, I fuck around with some guy at a shady joint, Lulu’s or something, and everyone thinks I have gonorrhea ‘till I graduate. Guess it just stuck.”

“Guess we shouldn’t fuck around anymore ‘till I get tested. And ‘till my ribs heal up.” Joe’s smile shifts into a grin. “But we can go down to a lake I know and feed the ducks with your leftover buns. That don’t need no tests. And it’s real pretty at sunset, too.”

Joe’s smoother than the well-moisturised hands of Bill’s little sister. “Yeah, I think we can,” he says.

//

The effort it takes to tear up the rest of the buns is well-worth it. Joe didn’t lie when he said the lake was pretty. The sky’s burning with reds, oranges, and purples as the sun sinks lower. All of it reflects onto the lake’s murky water like a million little mirrors. The grass in front of the park bench they’re sitting on has turned orange, too. It’s like a fire’s surrounding them, strange but welcome as a contrast to the calm Bill feels.

They didn’t talk on the way to the lake, and they haven’t talked in the short time they’ve been sitting at the waterfront. Bill’s compressing from the stress of dinner. Joe must be, too.

Bill tosses a chunk of bread to a squawking duck, and when he puts his hand back where it was on the bench, Joe’s is right there. He makes no effort to move it. And then, careful and just as smooth as Joe’s always been, he twines their fingers together.

It’s sure as hell not the most intimate thing they’ve done, but it feels that way. Bill’s heart is beating in his throat, and he’s calm no longer. The heat of the blood in his face outweighs the sun. He must be a brighter red than the one that’s spreading itself out above them.

“This okay?” Joe asks. It’s more than okay. It’s a close-to-perfect seal on a wild day. All Bill can do is nod.

There’s a duck calling out beside Joe. Bill fishes some bread out of the bag and tosses it to it. Tries to toss it. It bounces off Joe’s knee and the ducks go scrambling after it.

“So that’s how it is?” Joe narrows his eyes, feigning anger. He takes a handful of bread and flings it at Bill’s chest. Bill flings some back. Before they know it, all of the ducks are clamoring and shoving to get to the clumps that fell on the ground and Bill’s laughing with Joe.

It should be gross when Joe kisses him, tasting like wine and pot roast. Bill’s tasted worse on guys that were shit compared to Joe, though. He leans in. And it’s good, Joe’s mouth gentle under his and their fingers pressing harder together, the sky turning bluer as the seconds go by. It’s good for as long as it lasts, anyway. He’s about to slip Joe some tongue when a frantic duck flaps onto the park bench and buries its face in the bag of bread.

“I swear to God,” Bill says, scooting off the bench too fast and ending up on his ass in the grass. Joe laughs, loud and unashamed. Bill wishes he was close enough to smack him on the back of the head. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting the hell out of here before we run out of bread and the ducks turn on us.”

“You’d make an injured Mexican man walk home alone? In the dark?” Joe asks, voice colored heavy with amusement. 

“Yes, I would,” he says, but he doesn’t. They manage to salvage the bag and throw it away before they leave, Bill not escaping without a nip on his finger. 

“This might get infected, man,” Bill says, after he gets into his car to drive Joe home. “I could fuckin’ die because you decided it’d be romantic to feed the ducks, or somethin’.” Joe shrugs beside him.

Bill pulls out of the complex. “I mean, you hit me with your car, so I think that makes us even.” And Bill can’t say anything about that.

“Was that story about the dog trainer true?” Bill asks. He imagines what happened to the guy happening to him and can’t hold back a shudder. “That guy had it fuckin’ coming, if you ask me, but shit, that’s still one of the worst injuries I’ve ever heard about.”

Joe looks out the passenger window, head propped up on his hand, and then looks back to Bill. “It’s true. Didn’t mention that he got discharged because he bled out, though. No one minds if you say ‘fuck’ at dinner parties where they got wine, but they do mind if you start talkin’ on death.”

“That’s some heavy shit,” Bill says, sighing. “They should broadcast that story to animal abusers instead of making TV commercials that play “In the Arms of the Angels.” It’d be much more effective, I’ll say.”

Joe nods, a ghost of a smile on his face, and a silence that Bill can dare to say is comfortable falls between them. The rest of the drive is like that. Bill feels some kind of longing when they pull up to Joe’s house. “You can come in if you want. I have beer and the dogs are probably still up.”

Bill has some idea of what’s going to happen if he goes inside, bruised ribs or not. “Nah, I’m good. I’ll… I’ll call you tomorrow?” He ends it in an uncertain question. What they just did counts as a date in his mind, and he doesn’t know if Joe’s tired of him yet.

“Call me tomorrow,” Joe confirms. Bill leans across the console and gives him a kiss that probably wouldn’t count as a kiss to anybody else. 

Joe leaves, and he hears Benito barking on his way in. It takes a little bit for him to pull away- half of him wants to go inside. 

It’s the realization that this is his first outing with another guy- maybe he’s still reluctant to call it a date- that didn’t end with clothes off. That’s what gets him back on track to his apartment. Unless Joe taking his shirt off so Bill could tend to his bruises counted. And he’s proud of that. Something between the two of them feels weird, feels special.

//

His ma comes over the next morning with a basket of food. “It has been forever since I saw you, baby. You have not come over for dinner in what must be a month. Maybe two!” Her thick accent is a comfort to him, but her bustling around his kitchen, arranging things and putting away the food she brought, is less of one. “Your brothers and sisters have been asking after you, no stop. Your little sister thought you had died, Bill! Can you believe that?”

He feels awful. The bullshit that’s been happening recently has distracted him from what’s mattered most to him his whole life: family. And there’s no real way to justify it. He can’t just say, I’m sorry, ma, I was busy, because they both know full well he’s hiding something.

He thinks about what he’s been doing all this time. Fucking around with Joe, feeling sorry for himself. Those are things he’s hidden from her since he was a teenager.

He thinks about the way Joe’s made him feel this whole time. Before and after their misunderstanding, anyway, because his ma would condemn Joe without batting an eyelash- provided she’s okay with him being gay- if she knew that. It’s not worth hiding. I’m fuckin’ twenty-three, almost twenty-four.

“Ma, I gotta tell you something,” he says, when she’s done putting away the food and is instead glaring at the dishes from last night, piling in the sink. Her attention turns to him in record time.

“Are you sick? Are you dying? Is physical therapy going badly?” She gets closer to him with every question she asks. 

Bill’s hands are starting to sweat. He loves his ma, and the thought of losing her over something that he can’t change makes him sick. “No, ma… None of those things.”

“What, then?” she asks. She takes his hand in her work-weathered one and fixes him with a gaze so sharp the works come out like clockwork, memories of spoon-swattings coming to mind.

“I’m gay,” he says. “And I met someone and I really like him and I’ve been spending a lot of time with him and I hope you’re not mad-”

His ma smacks him on the ear. “Voi ragazzo sciocco!” she says. “Do you think I did not know that since you told me about that boy, Eric, when you did not come up to my waist?”

“No, I didn’t know.” He pauses, wondering if she’ll smack him again. “You aren’t mad, are you?”

“How could I be angry when my son is happy?” Her eyes turn soft. “But you won’t be happy for much longer if you don’t get over here and help me with these dishes. I wash, you dry.”

And then, when Bill’s hands have pruned from hot water and soap suds, she says, “Tell me his name.”

//

His ma insists that she has Joe over for dinner that night, but Bill manages to tide her off by saying he’ll come over soon, within the next couple of weeks, and he’ll get Joe to come along.

He calls Joe a little later. It’s early enough that he doesn’t think that Joe’s at work, and he’s glad when he picks up. He hates calling more than once. “I came out to my mom, like, thirty minutes ago.” 

Joe makes a noise of curiosity. “How’d it go?”

“Good. She said she’d known forever and made me do the dishes with her.” He doesn’t mention that he’d said anything to her about who he came out for. He might’ve been convinced that it wasn’t too early to have Joe over for dinner and drinks, but he knows it’s too early to mention that he’s told anyone but his close friends.

“I’m happy for you, Bill. My dad almost tossed me out,” Joe says. “But he died pretty shortly after and my ma didn’t mind me sticking around.” His voice is so clinical that Bill can’t help but wonder how bad Joe’s home circumstances were.

“Where do you wanna go tonight? Still a movie or somethin’?” He dodges away from the subject just as well as he dodged away from invasive questions about his sexuality for years.

Joe’s next words come through the receiver with relief. “Sure. Give me a second to check out showing times.” There’s silence on the line as Joe undoubtedly Googles it. Bill gets a text of a screenshot a few moments later.

“I haven’t seen Inside Out yet,” he says. “And I heard Fantastic Four was, like, unbelievably shitty aside from the screen time that Michael B. Jordan gets.” He doesn’t know if it’s childish to want to see a kid’s movie for a first- or maybe second- date. 

“Neither have I. And I don’t think it’s worth it to see movie just for one dude. Even if he’s as cute as Michael B. Jordan.” Bill laughs at that. “I’m down to see that.”

Bill gets up from where he’s sitting on his couch to walk into his room. He can never stay still when he talks on the phone. They make plans to get dinner after the showing, because it starts just a little bit after Joe gets off of work.

He’s been living under a sort of happiness for most of his life that isn’t full. He was skating along without much of a clue to where he was going. He was keeping most of his life a secret from everyone but a cluster of people. His ma was right when she said he was in a funk. But, as it’s been his entire life, you have to have your own epiphanies, and then the things people have been telling you all along make sense.

And now it’s a different kind of happiness. It’s fuller. Things could be looking up with Joe. When he presses the ‘end call’ button with a smile on his face, he’s more than willing to let it.

**Author's Note:**

> updates are probably gonna come on fridays but ill be out of town for a bit soon, so no guarantees.
> 
> gene's a trans guy if you didnt pick that up. more of my trashy queer hcs to come in later chapters.


End file.
